


It's Only Two

by rietala



Series: And They Were Roommates... [1]
Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Explicit Language, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Idk man I got sappy and sad and wrote this to cheer up, M/M, Pining, Roommates, Sharing a Bed, kind of??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:27:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26151103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rietala/pseuds/rietala
Summary: Shuichi wants to pull an all nighter to finish his school work. His roommate is having none of it.
Relationships: Oma Kokichi/Saihara Shuichi
Series: And They Were Roommates... [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1899034
Comments: 7
Kudos: 246





	It's Only Two

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'm here! Projecting my intense desire for affection onto my comfort ship!
> 
> I decided to start a series that's just a collection of Saiouma one shots that's basically fluff (and maybe some angst who knows) in a college setting. All you really need to know is that Kokichi is a theatre major, Shuichi is a criminology major, and they are roommates.
> 
> That's all! Enjoy!

The stark white background of an empty document burned Shuichi’s retinas; his mind whirred in a looping cycle. He typed out his thesis on the ethicality of capital punishment (because no, the death penalty is _not_ an effective or moral crime deterrent _goddamnit_ —) for what felt like the hundredth time before promptly deleting it. He couldn't find the right words: summaries, clauses, and action verbs tangled in an incomprehensible heap before unceremoniously fizzling out. Annoyance swelled in his chest as his eyes narrowed on the cursor. That stupid blinking line: it distracted him, taunted him, called him a useless failure of a criminology student—

 _Maybe don’t project your self doubt onto literal pixels?_ Shuichi rubbed his aching eyes and forced himself to take a few deep breaths. It was time for a break.

He needed another cup of coffee.

Shuichi stood up, leaning from side to side as he cracked his aching back. How long had he been sitting? Four hours? Six? A quick glance at his laptop screen informed him that it was nearing two in the morning. _Oh, great._ His forensics textbook waited impatiently on his desk: he still had three chapters worth of notes to take after this essay. Shuichi deflated as a wave of despair and exhaustion washed over him. He'd been hoping to get at least a few hours rest before his 8 a.m. lecture tomorrow morning, but that was clearly wishful thinking.

Shuichi studied the darkened silhouette of his roommate's bed. He couldn't detect any sign of light or movement from beneath the sea of blankets, "arts and crafts," and clothes that littered the bedsheets. Ouma was likely sound asleep, a rarity at this time of night. It wasn't as though the boy deprived himself of sleep (much like himself), rather, the trickster's sleeping habits were just more… eccentric. Shuichi would often come home from an afternoon class to find him sleeping off a night of gaming, or hear him wake up in the dead of night to start his day. He often chastised him for his irregular sleeping patterns, but Ouma would bite back with criticisms of his own, citing Shuichi's insomnia and sleep deprivation as the reason he constantly "had a stick up his ass." At first, their arguments were sharp and heated, ending with slammed doors and scathing insults. But as time passed and they learned to work around each other's quirks, their jabs at each other grew less vicious, more humorous. Shuichi found their banter strangely comforting, almost endearing?

Shuichi shook himself back into focus. Coffee. Now. Their dorm was in an even worse state of disarray than his brain. Usually with some diligence and well timed Panta bribes, Shuichi could hold both of them accountable to keep the room somewhat orderly, but lately he’d been so wrapped up in school that he let the place go. As the blue light from his laptop screen showered the room in a dim glow, Shuichi started to realize just how bad the place had gotten. Piles of junk spread across the floor had turned their room into a minefield. He spared a glance towards Ouma’s bed: it’d be… problematic if he woke him. He’d need to be careful. Shuichi started to tiptoe around the mess, strategically dancing around crumpled paper, a lone bike wheel, and a half full soda bottle.

As much as he wanted to, Shuichi couldn't fully blame Ouma for this mess, he himself was guilty of contributing to the scrap piles over the past few days. At least he didn't bring in more of the…weird stuff. He wasn’t sure what Ouma was going to use silly string, a box of pop rocks, and five cans of spray paint for, but he was probably better off not knowing. Plausible deniability was a good defense in court.

Shuichi had nearly made it halfway across the room when the light suddenly dimmed as the laptop started to enter sleep mode. _No, no, no!_ He tried to quickly stealth back towards the desk, but his efforts were wasted as he suddenly found the room plunged into inky darkness.

_Shit._

Shuichi chanced a step forward, breathing a sigh of relief as his foot met bare floor. He took another step, and another, tired mind desperately recalling where the empty spaces were as his heart pounded in his throat. Another step, and the sole of his foot met doom as he plunged down onto a stray rubber chicken. The snitch, betrayer, fucking _Judas_ of his current crisis let out a hellish " _HOOOOONK_ " as it deflated. Shuichi swore that his heart sputtered out, resuscitated, and failed again upon hearing that noise. He held his breath. _Please don’t wake up please don’t—_

"Saihara-chan?" A muffled voice called out from under the sea of fabric on his roommate’s bed.

Guilt pooled in Shuichi's stomach. "I-I'm sorry," he stammered out. He winced at his loud volume. "I didn't mean to wake you up," he added in a softer voice. He silently cursed the pitch darkness that held the room in its grip. He was desperate to know Ouma's reaction: was he annoyed? Amused? Confused? Shuichi pushed down his useless anxiety. Even if he _could_ see the boy's face, there was a slim chance he’d know what he was actually thinking. Ouma rarely let his masks slip.

After a moment of silence, the liar spoke. "Finally decided to hit the hay?" Shuichi frowned, even his voice betrayed no clear emotion.

"Ah, n-no. Not yet. Still have some work left to do."

The boy let out an overdramatized sigh. For a moment, everything was still, but Shuichi quickly recoiled as Ouma's bedside lamp flash bombed the room. He squinted against the bright light, willing his burning eyes to adjust. As soon as he was able, he focused on the liar.

Ouma had draped himself over his "beloved" Gordon Ramsey body pillow, plum eyes sharp and lips upturned in a bemused expression. The purple tips of his hair curled up in a tangled bedhead of fluff and frizz. A wrinkled, oversized t-shirt enveloped his slight frame. Shuichi fought back a laugh as he read the text printed on it: ‘ _I’m a Dad That Runs on Jesus Cornhole._ ’ _Charming,_ Shuichi thought to himself. Something warm, soft, and terrifying bloomed in Shuichi's chest. Ouma almost looked—

"You look like shit," Ouma remarked coolly.

Shuichi's lips twisted into a wry grin. "For once, I think you're actually being honest."

His signature cheshire grin split his face as he let out a giggle. "Just kidding! Shuichi looks _soooo_ cute with his hair sticking out like that. And those dark circles? Very hot. Has a broody antihero type vibe." Shuichi rolled his eyes as a blush threatened to tinge his cheeks. There was no reason for him to get flustered at that comment: Ouma was just lying and teasing, same as always.

He had other things to worry about, anyway. Now with an ample source of light, Shuichi made his way towards the instant coffee brewer. He fumbled around for a spare coffee pod, frowning as he tossed aside one that was decaf. Why did they even have that shit? His eyes lit up as he spotted a lone hazelnut blend hidden between the folds of a horse mask. He quickly snatched it and stuck the pod in the machine, starting the brewing process with a click of a button.

"Uh? What are you doing?" Ouma raised his eyebrows as he stared Shuichi down.

The detective's gaze flicked between Ouma and the ceramic mug in his hand. "Making coffee?" A thread of doubt laced itself through his words. Against Ouma’s tone of absolute incredulity, even he—a caffeine extraordinaire—started to question whether he was doing it the right way.

"Non non," he pronounced as he held up his finger. Shuichi's uncertainty made way for blatant confusion. What was he getting at? "Saihara-chan, darling, dearest, _beloved_." Shuichi's heart throbbed in his chest, he really couldn't cope with Ouma's teasing tonight, huh? "It is nearly three a.m.—"

"—It's only two—"

"—It is nearly _four a.m_ ," he persisted, a mischievous glint in his eye. Shuichi repressed a small smile that threatened to flit across his face. "It's bedtime." His tone carried a weight to it, an unquestionable demand from the resident supreme leader.

A tantalizing, earthy aroma crept into Shuichi's nose as he turned away from Ouma's gaze. His coffee had finished brewing. He didn’t _want_ to have to stay up all night, but his work needed done. And besides, he couldn’t deny his very small, slight addiction to the caffeine that laid before him. "I just need to—"

"Nope!" Ouma interrupted, popping the "p". He swung himself out of bed and skipped around the mess on the floor, energy laced throughout his form despite the late hour. He weaved his lithe hands around Shuichi's forearm and gave a solid tug. "Bedtime."

Shuichi sighed, letting himself be pulled towards his bed as he spared one last wistful glance towards the untouched mug. _Later_ , he promised himself, _once Ouma falls asleep_. The shorter boy clicked off his bedside lamp as they passed it, plunging the room into darkness once again. Shuichi blinked owlishly against the black curtain, but before his eyes could adjust, he suddenly flew backwards as he was shoved into the bed.

"Ouma-kun!" he cried out as his head bumped against the wall. He winced and started to rub it. "What gives?"

"Whoops, sorry!" Ouma, the absolute imp giggled. Shuichi detected a small hint of genuine remorse in the boy’s words: did he purposefully thread it in his tone? Or was it a real slip up? Just as Shuichi started to push himself into a sitting position, a warm, soft form crawled on top of him and settled over his chest diagonally.

For once, Shuichi was really, _really_ thankful for the inky darkness. He couldn’t repress the deep blush that bloomed across his features. "What are you doing?" he managed to croak out.

"Making sure you don't get up to do more work," he replied casually. Shuichi could feel the ghost of his breath tickle his neck from his position. It… wasn't an unpleasant feeling.

"I wasn't going to," he fibbed.

Ouma scoffed. "You're a shitty liar, you know that?" Shuichi frowned. _There goes that plan_. Despite the boy’s claim, he knew he wasn't a bad liar, but it was pointless to try to use deception against him. Ouma could spot a lie from an ocean away. If he was going to finish his work, he’d need to shift tactics.

"Ouma-kun, please," he pleaded, praying to reach his sympathetic side. "This essay's due tomorrow afternoon, and I can't work on it during my psychology lecture. I'm already falling behind in that class as is and really can't afford to miss—"

"UGHHH," Ouma groaned as he shifted his position. A lock of his hair brushed against Shuichi's cheek. He thought about using his free arm to swipe it away, but the warmth in his chest begged otherwise. "Stop complaining. I'll just do it for you." Shuichi paused. While he certainly trusted Ouma's intellect and sheer power of bullshit to write a good essay, something felt unmistakably off. He muddled through his sluggish brain, trying to remember the exact date…

"You can't. You have a big acting exam tomorrow and I _know_ you can't miss it."

"Ew. What are you? My stalker?"

"You've only mentioned it, like, twenty times." Shuichi rolled his eyes. "And besides," he added in a soft tone, "you seemed really worried about it." While Ouma's words and demeanor concealed most of his lies, his actions were more privy to spill an undeniable truth. He had been practicing his chosen monologue—Richard's opening soliloquy from _Richard III_ —almost nonstop. He tried to play it off as being purposefully annoying—embellishing his near constant speeches with far too much melodrama—but his readings carried a subtle undercurrent of seriousness. Shuichi even caught him rehearsing in private: a rarity, considering he never even bothered to do any of his homework, let alone practice lines. He even swore he caught glimpses of the acting class’s textbook buried within that chaotic mess of a bed. Yeah, he was worried all right. That much Shuichi could say for certain.

"Nope! Not worried at all," he denied in a sing-song voice. Ouma propped himself up on his elbows and leaned over Shuichi. His eyes now somewhat adjusted, he could just make out the outline of a vicious smile, all razor sharp edges and curves. " _I'm gonna crush every student in that class beneath my foot._ " Shuichi shivered. Two months ago, he would have believed his words and fallen prey to their cruel lies, but now he knew better. The world was Ouma’s stage; his masks a ploy to earn a reaction. The liar’s tone lightened as he flopped down in his previous position. "Just like you crushed my poor, sweet, rubber chicken."

Shuichi laughed, the sound slightly strained under the weight of Ouma's body. "Yeah, yeah." He almost gave in to the heavy, warm comfort in his head. "Still," he continued, willing his complacency away, "I really need to get up and finish this essay."

"Noo _oooo_." Ouma fake sobbed as he wrapped his arms around Shuichi's torso. "I'll just blackmail miss Jill Frost into writing it for you." Shuichi wracked his mind for who this 'Jill Frost' could be. If Ouma believed she could write a decent criminology essay, she had to have some ties to the program. But who in it did he know? And who would he consider cold enough to be dubbed—

"Kirigiri-san?" The name tumbled out of his mouth before his brain had time to process his deduction.

"Ding! Ding! Ding!" he sang. "I got my hands on some rather interesting middle school photos, so I'm sure she'd be willing to cooperate if I gave her a heads up." Shuichi could practically hear his scheming smirk.

"Ouma-kun—"

"That's a lie, though. They're actually photos of her in a bunny suit. Very sexy! Scandalous! Not my type, though—"

"Ouma!" he interrupted, ears burning. The trickster fell silent. "I get it, alright?" Shuichi's lips fell into a soft smile. "I'll go to bed."

Shuichi felt a previously unrecognizable tension melt away from the smaller boy's form. "About time," he muttered with a light flick to his forehead. Shuichi expected the other boy to get up and go back to his bed, but was met with surprise when he simply shifted into a more comfortable position. Half his body was still draped over Shuichi's, but he could now breathe much easier, free from Ouma's weight right over his lungs.

The two laid in a comfortable silence, breathing in tandem as . The detective wanted to poke fun at Ouma, ask what he was thinking, make him move the other pillow, but more than any of that, he wanted him to stay. Despite his routine denial of… _everything_ , really, Shuichi knew that this moment was as heavy and fragile as a glass swan. Their gentle peace was subject to be shattered with the slightest mistake or misstep: Ouma called him a coward, but he knew how quick the boy would flee if he pointed out their shared vulnerability. Shuichi did the only thing he reasonably could do: stay silent. He held still, listening as Ouma's breaths grew deeper and quieter. Shuichi matched his breathing, feeling himself slip deeper and deeper into a restful state. When he was one hundred percent certain he was asleep, and near teetering on the edge of unconsciousness himself, Shuichi allowed himself one last look at Ouma's sleeping form

"Goodnight, Kokichi," he whispered into the empty night, both hope and fear clashing within him as he imagined his words reaching everyone. No one. The one.

—

And Kokichi Ouma—master faker, actor, liar—laid completely still, pretending to be deep in slumber as Shuichi uttered that final goodnight. It wasn't until the other boy actually fell asleep that he allowed himself to smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Homos...
> 
> Check out my Tumblr @rietala for more V3 content and fic updates.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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